


death of a bachelor

by Someone_aka_Me



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death is a sassy shit, Gen, So is Bill, but then, humour but also angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 14:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15909927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Someone_aka_Me/pseuds/Someone_aka_Me
Summary: Bill Weasley dies before his time, mouths off to Death, and winds up landing himself ten years doing Death's job. Apparently, Death needed a vacation. By the end of his ten years, Bill can't really blame him.





	death of a bachelor

_When the night has come_

_And the land is dark_

_And the moon is the only light we'll see_

_No, I won't be afraid_

_..._

Bill would've sworn up and down that he'd cleared this particular pyramid for any curses.

But then the walls start trembling.

"Fuck.  _Fuck_ ," Bill says emphatically, casting a few spells to support the walls and ceiling, trying to keep them from coming down on top of him.

Except that his spells don't seem to be doing anything at all. Chunks of brick are falling down around him. He swears again, throwing a shield spell up over his head.

But that doesn't stop the rubble, either.

A loud  _crack_  resounds through the pyramid, and then Bill is ducking his head and throwing his arms over his head. He feels the impact for just a split second, a shattering pain through his arms and then his head, and then everything goes dark. And then bright again.

He blinks. The pain is gone. He's standing, but the pyramid is just a pile of ruins.

A pile of ruins with a bloody hand sticking out.

_His_  bloody hand.

_What the fuck?_

And then there's a man standing beside him. The man is tall and thin, pale as a ghost. His hair is white as snow. He's wearing a trim, well-fitted suit.

He smiles at Bill with thin, bloodless lips. But then he frowns.

"Bill Weasley?" the man asks.

"Um, yes?" Bill says. "Who are you?"

"No, no, no," says the man. "It's not supposed to be your time."

Bill blinks at him. "What does that even mean?"

"To die!" the man says. "It's not your time to die! I swear, the Fates had you marked for another century or so."

"I'm… dead?"

"Well of course you are. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here." The man is barely even looking at him, rummaging through his suit pockets, clearly looking for something. "There's got to be some kind of addendum for this."

" _Who are you_?" Bill says again, more emphatic this time.

The man looks up at him, as though recalling his presence for the first time.

"I'm Death," he says, as though this should've been obvious.

Bill's eyes widen. "I don't… what?" He glances back at the pile, where is hand is still sticking out of the pile.

He's…  _dead_. Crushed in a pile of bricks from a fallen pyramid.

He's nineteen-years-old and he's  _dead_.

There was so much he still wanted to do. He hasn't seen his family in almost two years. He'd never get to see his little brothers graduate or his little sister go to Hogwarts. He's only been a Curse-Breaker for two years, only just got to the point where they'll let him go it alone.

How could he have made such a stupid mistake?

"What did I do wrong?" he asks Death. "What made it come down?"

Death pulls a sticky note out of his pocket, consults it.

"Ah. Well, that would do it."

"What?"

"You were cursed," Death tells him. "This is  _ancient_ magick. Magick from before the Fates. It's the only kind of curse that the Fates can't see coming."

"Who cursed me?"

Death shrugs. "They don't really give me that information. It doesn't matter. You're dead, and there's really nothing I can do about it."

"But you're Death! Aren't you supposed to be in control here?"

Death tips his head. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

"Well, yes!"

"That's not how this works, however," Death says. "There are things from before my time, before the Fates."

Bill swallows, the reality of it all starting to hit him.

"So I'm really dead?"

Death twists his lips into a wry smile. "You're really dead. Have fun with that."

Bill cocks his head, looking at the slim, pale man. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?" Death asks thoughtfully.

"I don't know, a man in a cloak with a scythe? Anubis, weighing my soul against a feather? Charon, taking my soul across the Styx?"

"Well," Death says. "Actually, it depends on where you die. But you actually do have to pay the ferryman, being here."

Bill digs around in his pocket for a moment and fishes out a silver sickle. He pauses with the coin in his hand.

"Wait a second. We're in Egypt. That's not even the right mythos."

Death shrugs. "Yeah, all right. But this is a thankless job and it really doesn't pay very well."

Bill frowns at him. "What the hell? You can't do that!"

"Who's to say?" Death replies flippantly.

"You're terrible at this," Bill informs him.

"Oh, and I suppose you think you could do better?"

"Better than taking coins from people when you don't need to? Yeah, I think so!"

Death looks at him, carefully considering.

"Yeah, all right then," Death says.

Bill gets the sense that this does not mean he's won the argument.

"Now where is that..." Death mutters to himself. He snaps, and a scythe appears in his hand. "Aha!"

He reaches out and taps Bill lightly with the end of the handle.

"There. I hereby declare you... Death."

"What?" Bill asks incredulously.

Death shrugs. "You're Death now. I need a fucking vacation to feel all pretty and refreshed, and you've got a smart mouth. I hate that."

"You can't just make me Death!"

"I can. In fact, I did. For, say... ten years sounds reasonable."

"How is this even supposed to work?"

"Oh, right. Here," he hands Bill the scythe. "There. You'll feel the pull. You just follow it, and collect the soul. No matter who they are. Death doesn't discriminate. Easy enough."

"I don't even know what that means!"

"You'll figure it out," Death says. "Or you won't, and lost souls will wander the Earth for a decade, become vengeful spirits, and the living will suffer. It's really up to you."

And then Death is gone, and Bill is alone, holding a scythe, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

..

It takes some time, but eventually, Bill figures out essentially how this whole Death thing works.

He feels a tug, deep in his chest, like a hook under his heart. When he follows it, time stops. For him, and for whoever he's… well, reaping, for lack of a better word.

They ask him questions. Of course they do; everyone wants to know something. What it all means. What's next for them. Is there a God?

Bill doesn't know. No one told him. Maybe there is. He doesn't know what happens when he guides them on — all he knows is that they disappear from this plane of existence. Maybe there's something more out there. Or maybe he's the closest thing to God they're going to find.

It's a weird thought.

For a while, he wonders if he's killing them. He wonders what would happen if he just… refuses to answer the tug. But it turns out that if he doesn't answer the first pull, it just gets stronger and stronger and stronger until he's curled up in a ball, unable to do anything but follow the call.

It makes him feel very helpless.

Some of them are angry with him. They yell, scream, throw their fists — but they can't actually touch him. He's not sure he really exists anymore.

He listens to them rage.

The truth is, he understands the urge.

"This isn't fair!" one woman screams at him. She's young, only 24. Died in a shooting that shouldn't have happened. He's pretty sure they're in America somewhere.

She still got five more years than Bill ever did.

"No," he says. "It's not."

She stops in her tracks, stares at him.

"It's not fair. It sucks. Bad things happen to good people and good things happen to bad people and none of it's fair. But it's what we've got."

"It's barbaric," she says. "You're a barbarian."

Bill shrugs. "Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. I didn't ask for this either, you know." She stares at him, and he grins. The grin is a bit more savage than he means it to be. Three years of being Death have made him somewhat jaded. "What?" he says. "Surprised that Death doesn't want to take you either?"

Her face crumples, and he feels bad. He sighs. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair. It's not your fault I've got this job." Except that the asshole who gave it to him vanished before Bill could express his frustration, leaving him trapped.

Trapped, dealing with lost souls. Dealing with people who  _don't want to be dead_. People who aren't ready.

Oh sure, some people are ready. Sometimes he gets called to the side of an 80-year-old who's been on her last legs for ages and is ready to go, to figure out what's next.

But that's not most of them.

And Bill can't even blame them.

He wasn't ready either.

The woman is right. It isn't fair. None of it's fair. But that doesn't change what  _is_.

…

Time flows differently, because of the way it stops and starts. He's figured out by now that there's no way he gets called to every death, or else each day would take an age, with how often time stops for him. He doesn't know what happens to the ones he doesn't see.

But it's been eight years, and Bill is ready for his sentence to be over.

He's not sure what happens when it ends, but he can only hope the real Death shows up to take his scythe back. Bill doesn't want this job anymore.

But at least by now he knows the flow of things. He knows what to say. He knows how to soothe screams, to comfort tears, to guide the shocked.

He's learned a lot about life, being Death.

He's learned a lot about humanity.

…

He doesn't know, when he follows the pull, that this time is going to be any different than any time that came before.

He doesn't know. It feels just the same.

But then he lands, and he looks, and he goes impossibly cold.

"No," he breathes. " _No_."

Because staring back at him, soul standing three feet from his unmoving body, waiting to be reaped, is his little brother. The red hair is unmistakable, even ten years older than Bill has ever seen him.

_Fred_.

"Bill?" Fred says, his confusion evident. "But how are you… am I dead?" Fred looks around, sees his body on the floor. "Oh," he says. "Fuck. I am dead, aren't I?"

Bill can't breathe.

Well, he doesn't have to breathe. He's been dead for eight years. But… his lungs aren't working, he can't even play at the motions of breath.

He can't do this.

He can't reap his little brother.

He  _can't_.

Fred frowns at him, stepping forward. "Are you alright, Bill?" he asks. "You look a bit off. I'm the one that just died, I feel like if anyone ought to be freaking out here, it should be me."

"You can't be dead," Bill manages, his voice hoarse, the words scraping their way up his throat.

Fred shrugs. "It's war, Bill. I kind of figured it was a possibility."

"War?"

Fred frowns again. "Did you… not get a chance to see the living? Where were you?"

Bill shakes his head. "Not… erm. Not where I've been, but I might be a special case."

"Special case?"

Bill laughs. It sounds maniacal,  _insane_ , but he can't help himself because  _this cannot be happening_. "I'm Death, Fred. Death took a vacation and handed the job over to me. I'm not just here because I'm dead. I'm here because I'm  _Death_."

"Death took a  _vacation?_ Can he do that?"

Bill shrugs, still feeling a bit hysterical. "Apparently."

"So how is this supposed to work?" Fred asks. "The whole… death, thing."

"Why are you so  _calm_  about this?" Bill can't help but ask the question. Sure, he gets people who are calm, occasionally. Mostly when the reality hasn't set in yet. But Fred is… God. Fred is only  _twenty_. Only a year older than Bill was.

Fred shrugs. "I told you. It's a war, Bill. Voldemort came back, and he's had control of the Ministry for almost a year. It… this is our rebellion. I knew there was no way we were all getting out of this alive. If my life is what it takes for us to win? Then it's worth it."

And Bill looks at him,  _really_ looks. Fred was ten the last time Bill saw him. Twelve the last time he got a letter from his mum, twelve when Bill died.

At twelve, Fred was interested in pranking his siblings and eating all the sweets he could get his hands on.

But eight years have passed without Bill. Eight years of growth and life and  _war_ , apparently.

Bill barely recognizes this man in front of him — calm, level-headed, but clearly still quick with a joke and a smile.

Honestly, he's tried not to think about the fact that life has gone on without him. It aches, every time he thinks about his family. About his mum, who must've spent so long grieving him. About his father, who would've tried to show a strong face, but who Bill knows would've broken down in private.

About Charlie, who had just graduated and was ready to see the world, to work with dragons. And Percy, who'd just made Prefect in the last letter Bill had gotten and was so  _proud_. And Fred and George, inseparable and sharp and always full of laughter. Little Ron, who'd been eight when Bill had last seen him, and so fiercely independent, determined to make his own way. And Ginny — his only sister, the littlest sibling, six-years-old and already the bravest of them all.

If he thinks about them, he misses them so much it feels like he might explode.

But here's Fred in front of him, proof that time has passed. Proof that his little siblings have grown up into adulthood without him, without him getting a chance to see it.

He wishes there were someone he could scream at, because it's not  _fair_.

It's not fair at all.

But Fred is still staring at him, looking for answers that Bill still doesn't have to give.

And every platitude he's ever used to soothe a grieving soul seems insufficient in the face of his little brother.

"Honestly?" he says. "I don't have a damn clue how it's supposed to work. Any of it. All I know is if you follow me, you go…  _on_. And if you stay here, you become a ghost. Except that if you haven't done the right spells and everything, the ghosts just become angry, vengeful. It's not pretty."

"Where's on?"

Bill shrugs. "I don't know. Nobody ever comes back, and I can't pass through. Not until I can give up this damn scythe. I've got two years left."

Fred turns back to his body. "Do you know… is anyone else going to die here?"

Bill shakes his head. "I don't know. Maybe the real Death would, but I didn't get any of that. I just got the stupid scythe and the pull to follow the dead."

"Sounds like a pretty shitty gig," Fred says, turning to him with a grin.

Bill twists his lips wryly. "It really is."

Fred takes a breath, deep and bracing. "Okay," he says. "I'm ready. Lead on, MacDuff."

"That's not even the quote," Bill says without thinking.

"I know, you nerd," Fred says, grinning wide and bright.

And for the first time in a long time, Bill smiles back — a real smile, without irony or sympathy or pain. He slings an arm around Fred's shoulder, noticing as he does that Fred may be an adult but Bill still towers over him, even though they're essentially the same physical age.

He grips his little brother's shoulder tight, and he leads him  _on._

…

Two years later, the tug leads Bill to a familiar man with pale skin, pale hair, and a pitch black suit.

"Did you enjoy your time as Death?" Death asks him.

"Not really," Bill says.

Death grins, sharp and somewhat vicious. "Good. You weren't supposed to. Now go on. It's your turn to go."

Bill turns and walks away, leading himself down the path that leads to whatever comes next.

At the end, Fred is standing there, waiting for him.

Bill embraces his little brother with a smile.


End file.
